in the graveyard doing handstands
by lealila
Summary: In a world where no one is born with a heart, this is the story of how John and Sherlock earned theirs. Magical Realism AU. John/Sherlock pairing.


**_title from florence + the machine. for _**_thehighwaywoman_**_, who asked for magical realism._**

_in the graveyard doing handstands_

_in a world where no one is born with a heart, this is the story of how john and sherlock earned theirs._

Their meeting is a coincidence, nothing more. Mike Stamford does not have the ability to deduce whether or not someone has found their heart. He cannot see into the future; John always takes a walk in the park in the afternoon.

A coincidence, but not even weeks later, John and Sherlock never want to think about what would have happened if they never met.

(_especially_, john thinks but never says, years and years later, _especially when we gave each other our hearts._)

.

On the first night, John dreams.

They are standing in front of the college and Sherlock has a whole in his chest, right where his heart should rest. His wool coat is open and John watches as blood oozes slowly down his chest. John tries to help him, but Sherlock pushes him away, muttering gibberish, though John instinctively knows that he speaks of a man who steals hearts in the thick of night and that they need to catch the thief before they do something _awful_.

So suddenly, they are running (dancing) into infinity and beyond, the moonlight on their shoulders and Sherlock's blood on the sidewalk—morbid breadcrumbs, so they can find their way back to the only place they have been able to call _home_ in far too long.

He wakes up before they can find Sherlock's heart, and John is surprised that his cheeks are wet.

(Sherlock thinks he was dreaming about mountains and sand.

John doesn't correct him, and takes this dream to the grave.)

.

Their first (and only) conversation about hearts goes like this:

**John:** You know, most people already have their hearts.

**Sherlock: **(_distractedly_) I'm sorry?

**John:** Hearts. Most people already have them.

**Sherlock:** Dull.

**John:** So you don't have a heart, then?

**Sherlock: **No, not really my area.

**John:** Hmm. (_mutters_) Just like me...

**Sherlock:** (_looks at john sharply_) Something wrong?

**John: **No.

(An awkward silence passes between them.)

**Sherlock:** Er, John. You should know that I'm not looking for—

**John:** (_soothingly_) No—_no_. It's fine. It's _all_ fine.

(Then, Sherlock finds the cabbie and the rest of the words are lost to rooftops and pavement.)

.

No one is born with a heart, though they have lungs and blood and veins.

This is why:

A long time ago, Prometheus stole fire from the gods; he had nothing left to give to the humans that were given under his care. In retribution—since one can neither take away fire, nor destroy it— Zeus stole the closest object to it: the human heart. He decreed, as humans watched their chests bleed onto the ground while their hearts disappeared from their eyes, that hearts are earned. To earn the heart, one must prove that they are a good person.

(Lestrade says, "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very very _lucky_, he might even be a good one." And John, who knows what it is like to watch someone you respect (love) deteriorate, sees his chance to save Sherlock before he destroys himself.)

.

What no one knows is this: Doing good deeds is not the only way to earn a heart.

.

Moriarty says, "I will burn the_ heart_ out of you."

(_johnny boy listen to me i'm going to tell you a story_)

Sherlock doesn't tremble—he does not ever blink, but John almost wishes he would. "I have been reliably informed I don't have one."

(_this is the story of a man who once dreamed of flight_)

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty replies and John imagines his teeth are sharp like fangs.

(_and how he never had the heart to try_)

John stares at Sherlock and, weighed down by the Semtex and the stars, wishes fiercely that Moriarty was wrong.

.

Afterwards—when Moriarty walked off to the tune of "Staying Alive"; when Lestrade and Mycroft arrived with back up and three ambulances that, while appreciated (on John's part; Sherlock sneered and cast haughty gazes to both Lestrade and Mycroft), were rather unnecessary—John and Sherlock are arguing the necessity of body guards to accompany them back home, and stay the night (or two or three, from the subtle concern on Mycroft's face). They stand close together, arms brushing every now and then to reassure themselves that their best friend is still standing, still alright, still here.

(Not, John thinks, that either one of them are about to leave.)

Eventually, Sherlock says—something. John is falling asleep on his feet, so truly, he cannot be blamed for missing the words passed. But whatever he says works, and they are walking away and sliding into a cab that Sherlock magically produced and heading home. They take a cab, which John falls asleep in, dreaming of fire and sand and hearts.

Sherlock wakes him up when they arrive back home. "John." A hand rests on his shoulder. "John, we're home. Wake up."

He mutters something intelligible (_yes yes that's great now let me sleep_) and Sherlock pulls on his arm and pays the cabbie simultaneously.

"John," Sherlock says, gently, left hand ghosting over his hair.

John opens his eyes, and imagines he sees red dripping from Sherlock's empty chest.

He doesn't sleep that night. Sherlock, he is surprised to find, does, tossing and turning on the couch, pale hands clenching at his shirt.

.

Once upon a time, John fell in love. Her name was Mary. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, and wrote about dragons and warrior princesses when she didn't write about the real dragons and warrior princesses.

But—as such is the curse of being a Watson—alcoholism tore them apart when Mary was coming home from a trip to Ireland.

Neither she nor the cabbie nor the drunk driver survived.

At the funeral, John vowed never to fall in love again, twisting the engagement ring in his pocket and newly issued dog tags around his neck.

.

The first time Sherlock and John kiss, it is raining.

They just finished catching a serial killer who was obsessed with Hans Christen Anderson. Sherlock found out about the connection between the killer and his victims—how they always wrote fantasy novels—and (correctly) predicted the next target. They arrived seconds before the killer, and chased him all across London and her rooftops and streets and pavement.

But he does not London like John and Sherlock do and runs into a dead-end alley, however cliché it is. John lands a well placed punch and Lestrade quickly arrives to take the man into custody.

They're walking home, giggling about the cliché ending, arms brushing and eyes bright, and so very drunk on adrenaline.

When they finally arrive at 221B Baker Street, John lets his reserves drop and impulsively captures Sherlock's lips in his own.

To his surprise, he kisses back.

The next morning, Moriarty texts his arrival.

(They don't have sex, and both of them are fine with that. To sleep together—with Moriarty back—would be a distraction neither of them can afford.)

That same night, John dreams that both of them have found their hearts. He is surprised to find that they have not.

It takes a fall and a miracle to have the hole in their chests filled.

.

Sherlock asks, "Please, will you do this for me?"

John asks, "Do what?"

(_once upon a time, there was a man who dreamed of flight_)

"This phone call… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

John knows what's coming—he _knows_, but he can't help but respond with, "Leave a note when?" (Maybe, if he can keep Sherlock talking, keep his eyes fixed on the future they have dreamed of, maybe Sherlock won't jump. Maybe, John can save him. Maybe maybe maybe—)

"Goodbye , John."

(_but he never had the heart to try_)

"_Sherlock—!"_

_._

John doesn't dream anymore.

He especially doesn't dream of hearts.

.

But then Sherlock comes back after a year of hiding (a_nd was john supposed to seek? was this a game he never got the rules to?_) in a flurry of guns and shouts and left over pieces of Moriarty's syndicate—the pieces he couldn't reach on his own. And John—who hasn't moved on, not fully, but who has finally remembered that his best friend—boyfriend—whatever—is six feet under—follows him like he used to, with nary a word.

There's a sniper and a newspaper article and a firefight, and by the end of it all, Sherlock's name has been cleared and the last of Moriarty's people have been killed and finally—_finally_—they can go home to Baker Street and normality.

Except, everything _isn't_ normal. John is furious at Sherlock for lying to him about his death—for falling off of St. Bart's and never saying a word. He yells and Sherlock yells back and somehow, they're kissing and kissing and John is still furious but feeling Sherlock against him—alive and breathing and warm and _alive_—he can't hold on to the anger for long.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs when they break for air. "Sorry sorry—but I had to save you—to protect you—"

John cards his hands through Sherlock unruly hair. "Yes yes, I know. I know. I understand—"

And then they're kissing again, falling together on the couch, clutching at each other's shirt, afraid of losing their ground to sanity.

They fall asleep together, dreaming of hearts in their hands.

They wake to rain and a new heaviness in their chest.

"_Sherlock…_" John murmurs, as he feels the steady thrum beneath his chest.

Sherlock smiles, hands clutching at his chest.


End file.
